Picking Up the Pieces
by mayaslash
Summary: Shepard goes undercover to bring down a slave-trading ring and is forced to purchase a slave. FShep/Thane, possible femdom.
1. Chapter 1

Shepard resisted the urge to tug the fancy dress she wore. She didn't like dresses. She was the armour and guns kind of girl. However, going undercover and playing a high-paying customer for a slaver ring in order to bring down the aforementioned slaver ring required some sacrifices. Like, for example, wearing the expensive gown Miranda had lent her after she had solemnly promised to return it in one piece. She wasn't entirely sure she could keep that promise, but at least she had the funds to buy her another dress, should this one be ruined.

She sat calmly in a very soft, very comfortable chair in the office of the wealthy Batarian they knew was one of the ring-leaders. Thanks to Aria's cooperation and connections – and the Asari helped because she disliked the sudden competition when the slaver ring settled on Omega – Shepard was presented as a client wealthy enough and important enough to be attended to personally by the boss. Garrus stood behind her, looking imposing in a shiny new armour and a whole arsenal of different weapons upon his person. The Turian had been imposing and intimidating enough that they eventually allowed him to keep his weapons in their facility. Not that he would need them today, Shepard knew. Today was for scouting, not fighting.

In front of her, sitting behind a massive desk made of a single polished block of marble was the Batarian, quietly reading from the datapad Garrus had handed to him. Finally, he looked up, both pairs of eyes focusing on her, creating an effect that would've been disconcerting for any other person, but Shepard didn't even blink. She had stared down people far scarier than him in her life.

"Well?" she asked, allowing herself to sound slightly impatient, fingers twitching against her dress.

"All your funds check out, Miss Davidson." The Batarian gave her a greedy smile. "You can purchase whatever goods you wish." He paused, looking at the datapad again. "I see that you would like something rare and exotic?"

She nodded and lifted her chin.

"I believe I have just the thing for you." The Batarian said amiably, beckoning her to follow him to the hidden elevator on the far wall of his office. Together they Garrus they entered and the doors closed with a hiss behind them. As the machine began moving down, the Batarian kept talking.

"Ever heard of the Drell, Miss Davidson?"

She hadn't.

"No, I don't think I have."

The Batarian grinned even wider.

"I am sure you'll like what you'll see. They do resemble your own species, but are deliciously different as well. And this one…" he paused when the elevator stopped abruptly and the doors opened "is special."

They left the elevator and followed the Batarian through a darkened corridor into another room – a large hall, in fact – windowless, smelling of disinfectants and sweat and fear. There were pens lined up against the walls, dozens and dozens of them, too short for a grown person to stand in them, and too small to lie down, cruelly designed to keep the people occupying them from doing anything but sit or kneel. They were all filled with people – human and otherwise – of all genders and ages, most barely dressed, watching the newcomers with dull, empty eyes.

Her stomach roiled with revulsion, rage and raw hate at the sight and she turned to look at Garrus, because if she looked at the Batarian right now she wouldn't have been able to stop herself from tearing out all four of his eyes and cramming them down his throat. Garrus own eyes were two chips of ice in his scull, almost glowing with a rage probably as great as hers.

Finally, she turned to the Batarian again and smiled saccharinely at him.

"I was promised something special, but what you're showing me here is your usual stock. This scum here has been sold and resold numerous times. I want something that isn't used goods." She said through gritted teeth, half-grateful that the Batarian didn't understand the real reason why she was so angry.

"We're going to him, Miss Davidson. Be patient." The slaver answered, gesturing to the door at the far end of the hall. "We keep him separate from the rest, for special clients like you." He began as he led them. "He was an assassin once, believe it or not." The Batarian explained as they reached the door and he entered the security code in the lock. "He murdered our former leaders and many of their associates. We decided that this would be the most fitting fate for the likes of him."

The room he led her in was small and completely empty, save for the pen situated in the middle of it. Inside there was a man kneeling, his head bowed, dressed in form-fitting leather pants, barefoot and shirtless, his hands cuffed behind his back and connected to another pair of cuffs around his ankles. The man was humanoid, as the Batarian promised, his facial features quite similar to that of a human, his body-structure as well. That was where the similarities ended – he was covered in smooth, tightly knight iridescent green scales, his eyes, much larger than that of a human, were pitch black, there wasn't a single hair on his body, not even eyelashes. The man's eyes were firmly focused on the floor before him as she approached and he did not look up, as still as a statue. She eyed his pose again and resisted the urge to wince – who knew for how long he'd been forced to kneel like that.

"He's very well-trained to serve, Miss." The Batarian's grating voice interrupted her thoughts. "I admit, it took us almost five years to break him after we captured him, and another year to train him properly, but he'll be completely obedient now." The slaver leered at her, then at the captive in the pen. Shepard kept her hands behind her back, out of sight from the bastard before her, fists clenching and relaxing as she tried to regain her cool. Shepard knew what they did to willful captives, knew about the whips and the drugs and implants, the ruthless cruelty with which they treated other sapient creatures until they convinced them they were little more than objects to be used.

She took a deep, calming breath and reminded herself that she couldn't kill the man now. She needed him to lead her to his associates. And that meant coming back here and buying another one, not just this man kneeling before her now. She needed to convince the bastard that she was a good client.

Suddenly, the man looked up and their eyes met. Time stopped and she forgot how to breathe as she gazed in the onyx depths. The Batarian was wrong. This man here wasn't broken. He was damaged, yes, and absolutely desperate, but not broken – there was fire in those eyes, feverish, even crazed fire, but those weren't the eyes of a soulless, broken doll. Perhaps he wasn't beyond help.

She turned to the Batarian and gave him another saccharine smile to hide her bloodlust.

"I'll take him."

On the ride back to their rented apartments, all three people in the vehicle remained silent. The slave she had just bought was quiet in his seat, his legs now uncuffed and his hands moved to his front, lying demurely in his lap. He was staring out of the window, down at the flashing lights of Omega – the bars and brothels and the nightclubs, at the tiny people toiling away in this hellhole, burrowing deeper and deeper among the trash.

Garrus was piloting the vehicle, his three-fingered hands moving along the glowing controls in gestures so sharp and jerky that Shepard could tell he was still infuriated.

She herself felt drained – her previous rage still simmering under the surface, but also incredibly tired. She had been fighting against people like that her entire life, and yet she hadn't even dented their operations. From time to time, she glanced back at the Drell, carefully examining his elegant profile – the prominent brow-ridges, the small, delicate nose, the full, almost pouty lips, the strong curve of his chin. If he weren't what he was, she would've certainly found him attractive. Probably would've pursued him as well. As it was now, the thought of beginning any sort of sexual relationship with him, after all he's been put through by the monsters back in that place, seemed absolutely abhorrent to her. He stomach roiled again and she turned around, focusing on Garrus. Brave, noble Garrus. Her best friend and most trusted lieutenant. He gave her strength when her own strength abandoned her.

Finally, they reached the luxury hotel behind Afterlife and Garrus parked the vehicle on their reserved pad. The slave obediently followed them as they entered the grandiose lobby and made their way to the elevators, ignoring the Asari hostess that bowed to them respectfully. Garrus escorted them to Shepard's rooms and paused at the door as she led the man in.

"Do you want me to stay?" he asked, blue eyes both hesitant and suspicious as he watched the Drell stand quietly behind Shepard.

"It's alright. I can handle him." She reassured the Turian and allowed the sliding doors to close. She didn't expect, however, to be suddenly tackled by a Drell who was surprisingly heavy for his slender build, his hands thrown over her head in an attempt to suffocate her, the vice like grip tightening around her throat like a snake trying to suffocate the life out of her. She elbowed him in the stomach, as hard as she could, and stomped on his bare feet with the high-heeled shoes she wore as hard as she could, but the only result was a grunt and a hiss and the grip tightened ever further. She was beginning to see black spots, becoming more and more light-headed. The pressure on her neck was enormous and she was sure he was trying to break it and the only thing preventing him from having already achieving that result was the heavy bone weave her doctors had installed months ago.

In the last possible moment before she lost consciousness she remembered the remote for the nerve stimulator connected to what must've been a Biotic Amp installed at the base of the Drell's neck. Shepard stuck her hand in her pocket and wrapped her nerveless fingers around the small device. She pressed the button as hard as she could and the grip loosened completely, a pained moan issued through gritted teeth filling her ears and the Drell finally let go of her and staggered back.

Shepard swayed and almost fell over as well as she heard him crumple against the wall. Her vision was blurry and her neck ached as she desperately gulped for air, one of her hands going to her throat to check for damage. Finally, her sight cleared, the howling in her ears stopped and she regained his footing. It was only then that she heard the scuffing sounds behind her, as well as the pained, guttural whimpers. She turned around and saw the Drell spasming on the ground, dark eyes wide-open and unseeing, teeth bared in a rictus snarl. Much to her surprise she realized that her finger was still firmly pressing the button of the remote and she dropped the thing in her hand as if it burned her.

The Drell stopped thrashing immediately and sagged against the wall, gasping for air as much as she did. It took him a few moments to regain his faculties enough to look around and then finally his gaze fell on her. The dark eyes widened in unmistakable fear and he tried to crawl back, all fight having gone out of him, tremors running through his slender form.

Shepard felt guilty. She had seen more than enough times what slaver implants did to people, and could only imagine that one set in place of a person's biotic amp – as it had direct access to their nervous system – was capable of inflicting untold agony on its victim. And she had just done that and the result was staring up at her with terrified dark eyes.

Feeling nauseated Shepard kicked the damned device away from her and carefully approached the Drell, who now sat propped up against the wall, his knees drawn up to his chest in a clearly defensive position. He flinched even more and pressed himself as far back to the wall as he could, expression vulnerable and fearful as Shepard crouched low to look at him in the eye from his level, then kneeled on the ground.

The transition from an incredibly strong – and apparently well-trained – attacker to a frightened victim was jarring and she knew that things between them could've started better.

"It's okay." She tried, using the most soothing tone she could manage, despite the fact that her voice croaked as if she had glass in her vocal cords. Damn, but he had been strong. "I'm not going to hurt you." She raised her empty hands to show him she held no device. "I'm sorry I had to use it." She elaborated. "You would've broken my neck if I hadn't."

A surprising expression of guilt rippled through his features at those words.

"What is your name?" Shepard tried again.

He stared at her incomprehensively.

"Surely you have a name."

The confused look didn't leave the Drell's features. She sighed and tried again:

"What did your… masters call you?" she asked and the word 'masters' tasted bitter on her tongue.

He licked his lips and tried to say something but no sound came out. She stared for a moment then she realized what was going on, got up from the floor and hurriedly poured him a glass of water from the bathroom and returned only to find him in the same fetal position, propped up against the wall.

"Here." She offered him the cup but he just stared at her for a moment, apparently expecting this to be some sort of a trick or a cruel game but she remained in her spot, quietly offering him the full glass. Finally the Drell reached and tentatively took the glass from her, cradling it in both of his hands and keeping it there for a while, watching her for a few more moments as if to reassure himself she wouldn't try to take it from him. When he was satisfied, he pressed the glass to his lips and drank greedily, audibly gulping the clear liquid until the glass was empty.

Shepard carefully took the glass from his hands and set it on the floor next to them.

"Now, let's try again. What's your name?"

"Number 37." The alien finally spoke and she blinked in surprise at the sound of his voice – hoarse and resonant, so very different from a human.

"Oh." she sat down and settled herself more comfortably. "And before that? What was your name before you were captured?"

The Drell looked away and a shadow fell on his features, distress clearly written all over his face. His arms tightened around his curled knees and he let out a pained, pitiful sound, much like a wounded little animal.

"Hey, it's okay. It's okay." She hurriedly tried to soothe him. "I'll just call you 37 for now, okay? You can tell me about the other name when you feel ready."

She offered him his hand in an apparent handshake.

"I'm Elizabeth Shepard."

He looked at the offered hand as if it was an incredibly violent and poisonous alien critter and under other circumstances Shepard would've felt a little offended, but now she just sighed and remained as she was, patiently waiting for him to gather the courage to shake her hand.

Hesitantly, the Drell reached and shook her hand.

"I know… I know that name…" he whispered.

"Who doesn't?" Shepard thought with annoyance. Saving the Galaxy not once, but three times from billions of years old sentient machines did that to a person.

Only Mordin's and Chakwas' expertise had made sure that she was practically unrecognizable so that she could take up this job.

After he let go of her hand, she leaned back on her heels, her gaze taking him in his slim figure and said:

"You must be hungry. I bet they didn't feed you well there, among other things."

After a moment's hesitation, the alien nodded.

"I'll call room service." She informed him and got up to her feet to place her order. "What does your people eat?"

He blinked, apparently having difficulty understanding her question, then apparently it clicked for him because he answered with a soft:

"Fruits, Mistress."

Shepard froze when he called her that, another wave of revulsion threatening to twist her stomach into knots but she swallowed around the bile that rose in her throat. Her first urge was to tell him, order him if she had to, not to call her that, but she thought better of it. She had just acquired another sentient being as property, a sentient being that had apparently been subjected to brutal abuse for years for the sole purpose of breaking his will and molding him into the perfect servant. Although their little scuffle earlier that evening had proved that the conditioning hadn't entirely succeeded – or maybe had even failed spectacularly – he was still suffering and would continue to suffer for some time from severe trauma. Changing too many things at the same time might not be a good thing.

"Fruits it is then, 37." She told him quietly.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Here it is, finally. I hope you like it as much as you did the first chapter.

**2**

Fruit arrived with swiftness only a lot of money could buy here on Omega. A pale salarian stood by the door with a tray of food floating next to him and bowed respectfully when Shepard tipped him generously. She pulled the tray in the room and opened the lid. Her eyes widened at the treats she discovered – a large crystal bowl full of different fruits from all over the galaxy, including good old Earth cherries. Her mouth watered and she surreptitiously stole one then felt guilty because she had noticed how thin her guest was.

Her eyes moved to the other lid-covered dish and she removed that lid as well, the delicious scent of freshly cooked steak tingling in her nostrils. It was real meat, not one grown in a vat. Oh, Joker would have a fit when she told him.

With a pleased smile she guided the tray to the dining room in her apartment and carefully set the fruit bowl and the steak on the table, then went to search for 37.

He was where she last left him – huddled against the wall of the living room. He appeared to be deep in thought as he sat there, not reacting to her presence until she was practically looming over him, then suddenly, startled, he flinched and looked up, dark eyes wide and fearful.

It was heart-wrenching to look at what once must've been a proud and dignified man reduced to this and she quietly vowed that she would help him find peace again. She had seen so many horrors perpetrated by slavers and yet she still hadn't grown numb to it. Perhaps it was so because it was personal. Mindoir had taught her harsh lessons about slavers.

She gave him a soothing smile.

"Dinner's ready."

Taking a step back to give him space she waited for him to unfold himself from his position on the floor and he followed her after a small hesitation, his eyes still firmly trained on the ground.

When she led him to the table, however, he saw the treats she had for him and froze on the spot, gaze hungrily focused on the fruits, only to move slowly to her after a few long – and longing - moments. His jaw worked for a moment but no sound came out until he swallowed past his anxiety.

"For me, Mistress?"

She really needed to tell him as soon as possible not to call her that.

Shepard nodded and gestured towards the table.

"What are you waiting for? Tuck in."

He appeared to make a decision because he moved with surprising grace and speed and slid into the chair, pulling the fruits towards him and staring down at them as if they were a rare treasure. She didn't even want to begin to imagine what they must've fed him with for all these years as she noticed the way his fingers trembled before taking a small, dark cherry from the bowl and popping it into his mouth. His expression melted in sheer delight only moments later when the sweet juice exploded on his tongue.

With a smile, Shepard slid in her own chair and prepared to eat as well.

"You like it, I take it?"

He looked up, the ribbed flesh across his cheeks and throat rippling with what could only be embarrassment.

"Yes, Mistress. I cannot even begin to thank you." He paused, looking down again in shame. "Surely I don't deserve…"

"Hush now. We won't speak again about the earlier accident, okay?"

He nodded.

They ate in silence for a while, and if 37 was uncomfortable to eat at the same table as his owner, he didn't show it. Once again, Shepard felt hopeful that he could make a full recovery, despite the horrors he must've gone through.

Finally, after she was feeling pleasantly full, she wiped her mouth with a napkin and looked up to him to find that he had finished most of the fruits in the bowl and was now trying to open a pomegranate using only his small but sharp nails – and much to her surprise, she noticed for the first time that his ring and middle finger were fused together. Still, the pomegranate skin was thick and tough and it took a few attempts until he succeeded and discovered the tiny crimson arils inside. He blinked at them in surprise, obviously not having expected for it to look like that.

"Do you need help with that?" she asked quietly, secretly amused at his confused expression as he pondered on how to peel the arils from each other without the staining everything around him with the fruit's juice.

"I… I have never seen such a fruit before, Mistress." He stated quietly.

She offered him one of the tiny spoons lying on the hovering tray.

"This might help."

As he carefully began digging into the fruit, she asked him: 

"You said that you've heard my name before?"

He nodded.

"Yes. It seems… familiar."

Could she trust him? Tell him the whole truth? Surely after being at the slaver's "tender" mercies for all this time would've left him craving justice, or revenge, at least?

She decided to go with a slightly modified version.

"I have some business with your former masters. Business that requires me to give them a false name."

He did look up then, his wide eyes oddly pensieve, the corners of his lips quirking up minutely.

"I noticed. The slaver mentioned a different name when he was pulling my contract." He pointed out.

It was her turn to blink in surprise. They had been pretty far away from the man, how had he heard? Were his senses that sharp? Then again, he had been a professional assassin, from what the Batarian told her, it must've been part of his training.

"Either way… after my work with them is finished, I will release you." She informed him neutrally and waited for a reaction. 37 carefully put the spoon in back on the plate he was using and regarded her with an odd expression on his face.

"Release me, Mistress?"

She nodded.

"I don't keep slaves. I bought you so I could get in the Batarian's good graces." She explained.

"I think I remember where I've heard your name." he said after a while, looking down at the fruit. The dark red juice had spilled over the pristine porcelain of his plate. "You're…a Spectre?"

She nodded slowly. He had put it together after only a few minutes of conversation – an impressive feat for a person in his position. He must've been formidable before his capture. She was beginning to suspect he was formidable even now.

"Then you're here to bring down the Slavers?" he sounded hopeful. She nodded again. "What about the other slaves?" he asked. "Will they be freed as well?"

"I'll do everything in my power to set them all free. The Alliance has programs for people like that. So does the Council itself. They will be in good hands."

He kept staring at the red juice, then absently swirled a finger through it.

"Free." The Drell murmured. "Even if they're free, nothing will go back to the way it was before they were taken."

His words were pronounced so softly that she had to strain her ears to hear him – her companion clearly wasn't talking to her.

"We can contact your family, if you wish, once this business is over." She offered, hoping that'll cheer him up but her words seemed to have an adverse effect.

"Family? No. Nononono." He muttered. "Stay away from them!"

She blinked at the sudden and violent reaction.

"Alright, alright, we won't."

"Stay away!" he exclaimed again, but he wasn't looking at her. "Stay away!"

Shepard remained silent for a few moments, but he appeared more and more agitated. Then suddenly, he began to speak with a deep, resonant voice, different than his usual tones – cold, predatory.

"She's here, in the house, I know she is." He said, dark eyes wide open, wide even for a drell. "Hiding somewhere. But I'll find her, and then we'll have some fun!" The alien was shaking with each word, trapped in what appeared to be a strange sort of flashback Shepard did not understand. He looked terrified and it seemed to contrast completely with the amused, vicious tone of his voice. "Where areee you, lizard girl?" he singsonged. "Come out, come out, where ever you are…"

The obsidian eyes filled with tears that threatened to spill over his iridescent cheeks and Shepard knew she had to do something to make him snap out of this, whatever it was. She got up from her chair and rushed to his side, then grabbed his shoulders and tried to shake him awake, but he seemingly ignored her.

"I can hear her!" The drell exclaimed triumphantly. "Come on, boys, down the hall!"

He was shaking like a leaf in her hands and no matter how hard she tried, how she called his name, there was no reaction.

"Ah, there you are, princess." He said, cold amusement lacing his words. "Let's play."

Finally, seeing that she had no other choice, Shepard gritted her teeth together and swung her hand, slapping him open-handed across the face. His head snapped to the side and he almost fell off the chair from the force of the blow, but quieted down immediately. She immediately felt guilty, surreptitiously rubbing her spittle-covered hand against her dress, but the radical measure seemed to have worked – the drell was looking around, appearing upset and confused, but his eyes were clear again.

"37?" she asked tentatively. Slowly he looked up.

"Mistress?"

"Are you alright?" Shepard asked him and winced when she noticed the blood on his lip. She didn't realize she'd hit him that hard. He blinked up at her, then a violent shiver went through his entire body.

"I apologize, Mistress." Was all that he offered.

"What was that?"

The alien looked at his leather-covered knees and quieted down even further, apparently having no intention to respond. 'He's trained so well he refuses to answer simple questions.' Shepard thought sarcastically and felt guilty all over again. If he didn't want to talk about the things that bothered him, that was fine. Despite the contract that said that this man was essentially her property, just like her guns and toy ship models and pet hamster, she could never view him as such.

"Very well." She withdrew from him. "Come, I'll show you where you'll sleep."

The apartment was large enough to actually have a second bedroom and Shepard had decided even before leaving for the slaver's office to put it to good use – there was no way she was letting the Drell to sleep on the couch, or worse, the floor.

He followed her obediently like Urz had back on Tuchakna, if appearing a lot less enthusiastic than the varren.

"Here." She led him in and allowed him to take in his surroundings – it was a large room, not as large as the main bedroom, but just as luxuriously furnished and having access to its own bathroom and toilet that possessed a large tub.

"This is…for me?" he asked dubiously.

"Yes. You'll sleep here for the duration of your visit."

Slowly he turned to look at her, his expression still wary and distrustful. He appeared to want to say something but barely held himself in check.

"What?" she finally said.

"Is this some sort of a game, Mistress?" he finally responded.

Shepard pinched the bridge of her nose. She should've known that this would be difficult.

"No game." She grabbed his wrist and tried to ignore how thin and brittle it felt under her fingers and led him into the room, then pushed him to sit on the bed. Considering how the evening had started, his total lack of resistance was both worrying and a relief at the same time. "I did say that I am here to stop the slave trade, didn't I?" she tried again. The man gave her a mirthless smile.

"If that is truly so… then you'll forgive me my lack of trust. I have been given no reasons to trust anyone for the past several years."

It was understandable, even if it made her job more difficult. Her headache was worsening.

"Let's say that I believe you." He began. "What will my obligations be, as your property, during your mission, Mistress?"

"I would prefer if we dispense with that "Mistress" thing, at least when we're in private." She muttered, her hands still covering her face.

There was a long, uncomfortable silence. When he spoke again, his voice was barely a whisper, as if he was ashamed of what he had to say:

"I would prefer to keep using it… if you don't mind. Makes me more comfortable. It's familiar ground."

"I understand." She conceded. "As for your obligations… I need information – anything you have learned during the time of your captivity, anything useful that could help me unravel their plans and their organization." Shepard explained when she finally looked back at him, only to discover he was observing her thoughtfully. The pain he had experienced earlier seemed to have receded, his shoulders and back were ramrod straight, and even if his head wasn't held high, there was no sign of weakness as well. She suspected that she was catching a glimpse of the man 37 had been before his capture.

"I will tell you everything you wish to know, Mistress." He said solemnly.

"And when we're in public… you will have to act as my slave." She continued, expecting a flinch or a frown, but he just nodded, as if her request was the most natural thing in the world.

"I will, Mistress."

"Good." She got up from the bed and walked towards the door. "In the morning I'd like my physician to take a look at you, if you don't mind."

He didn't appear very happy about it, but nodded.

"I understand that you don't trust me, Mistress." He began, but she smiled wryly.

"I sense the feeling's mutual."

Surprisingly, he answered her smile.

"May I suggest that you lock my door from the outside, then?"

"If you were the skilled assassin before your capture as the Batarian said you were, I doubt a locked hotel door would be able to stop you from walking out and smothering me with a pillow while I sleep." She pointed out.

"True."

"No reason to restrain you, in that case. I'll just have to make the first step and trust you…not to kill me."

With that she turned away and walked out of the room, leaving the door wide open after her.


	3. Chapter 3

**3**

She left the door open when she exited the room. Thane found it a ridiculously foolish thing to do, especially after what he had almost done earlier that evening. He had acted out on instinct, like an automaton, his only wish to kill this person and flee.

When the slaver had led her into the room with his cage he hadn't looked up at first, disinterested in the potential buyer. There had been other buyers before that, many of them, and all had immediately scrapped the idea to buy him after they heard about his previous occupation, conditioning or no conditioning. Sometimes he wondered why the slavers didn't just kill him. Was their need to torture and humiliate him greater than the expense of his upkeep for all these years? Not that they spent too much money on him – he was barely fed as it was – but it had still been years.

The Batarian's voice elaborating on Thane's uniqueness had piqued his interest and he had looked up, meeting a pair of steely grey eyes. The client was a female human, dressed in a clearly expensive and stylish dress of Asari silk with voluminous long sleeves and elaborate scrollwork down her slender hips. He had little understanding of human attractiveness, not to mention that after years of isolation he had barely seen any humans, but from his limited knowledge he concluded that other probably humans found her more handsome than pretty with her chiseled features and sharp jawline. Short fiery curls of hair framed a face with freckled skin and the aforementioned grey eyes that regarded him with mild curiosity. Those eyes enthralled him in a way that was disturbingly familiar – there was no pity there, nor cruelty, just fierce determination and iron will. No one had looked at him that way for a very long time. He returned the gaze with equal fervor, the memory of another pair of eyes looking at him in the same way rekindling something of the old Thane in him. He wanted her to buy him, he wanted to get away from this place, to go wherever the stranger brought him – because anywhere would be better than here.

The trip back to her hotel was a blur to him, the sights and smells, no, stench, of Omega was too much for him, overwhelming him after spending so long isolated from the outside world. He hadn't been able to handle it, he realized, not right away, being under the open air again, after spending an eternity curled up in a cage too small to even lie down in it properly, often tied up in a way that left him aching for hours afterwards. The sudden freedom from the cage both terrified and exhilarated him and when she led him back inside his only thought was to go back out. He needed to go back out, even if he felt that he was going to fall into Omega's artificial skydome.

He had acted on instinct, the moment they remained alone in her apartment, away from the obviously well-trained Turian, his hands tightening around her soft-looking white throat and squeezing, pressing against her neck in a desperate attempt to break it and free himself from her control. He hadn't expected the fierce resistance, nor for her to have enough presence of mind to look for the device the slavers gave her and to press the button. For a long, agonizing moment reality blurred around him and he was squeezing Irikah's throat, her much smaller body writhing in fear in his grip, rapidly weakening, life slowly seeping out of her… The thought of it was so horrible that he let go, recoiling both mentally and physically from that experience.

With a sharp gasp Thane returned to the present and blinked at the still open door. He got up and strode towards it, then purposefully closed it shut.

Releasing the breath he didn't realize he was holding, he returned to the bed and sat down, looking down at his bare feet.

Was this woman… Shepard, telling the truth? Would she really release him, after all of this was over? If she did, then what? The thought of returning to Kahje, to Kolyat, was so horrible that he physically recoiled from it as if struck. He could never see his son again, not after what he had done. Not after…

_Large, sunset-coloured eyes blink tears away as he finds her under the bed and forcefully drags her out of there. She's shaking in his arms, so much smaller than him, terrified out of her mind but still fiercely determined. It makes him angry that she would defy him so._

"_Where is the boy, bitch?"_

_Her lips thin but she does not respond, the set of her jaw stubborn._

"_I know you're hiding him in here somewhere. Tell me where and I'll give you both a quick and painless end." He threatens, his voice so low that it's barely audible. Suddenly she spits in his face, a desperate act of defiance and his long-simmering rage explodes as he strikes her across her jaw and she reels back onto the bed, stunned and confused by the blow. He's on her in a moment and growls:_

_  
"You'll regret this, you little viper!"_

With a moan he dragged himself out of it and collapsed back onto the bed. The torment continued, even when he's awake, even when the damned device was dormant, he could never escape from the horror of it, just like he couldn't escape from the trap of his own mind.

It was early morning when Shepard woke up – or at least the alarm clock on her bed stand said so. She knew that if she looked outside her window Omega would look exactly the same as it did in the middle of the "night". There was no artificial sky here, or artificial sunlight, or simulated wind – just an endless twilight filled with monsters under the bed.

She smiled mirthlessly at her own thoughts – Omega hardly deserved such a poetic description. With a sigh Shepard dragged herself from the large bed and headed for the adjoining facilities. Finishing her business there, she stepped into the shower and spent the next ten minutes relaxing under the hot water. It was going to be a long day today and she was determined to make the best of whatever free time she had.

Wrapping herself in the fluffy white bathrobe the hotel staff had left for her, she left the bathroom and headed for the dining room, only to stare in surprise. The table was set, covered in various breakfast meals – juice, coffee, toast, bacon, eggs, cheese, fruits, jam – things you could buy on every street shop on Earth but things that cost a fortune here on Omega. Her mouth watered and she approached, wondering if the Drell had woken up before her and called room-service, determined to thank him for it. She wasn't expecting, however, to see him kneeling next to the table, hands demurely resting on his thighs, head bowed submissively. He was once again dressed in the simple leather pants he wore yesterday, naked and barefooted otherwise. Her eyes roamed over the diamond stripes that ran across his toned shoulders and abs and the shock of arousal at the sight surprised even her. She knew her tastes, the games she liked to play, and she had reacted on instinct at the sight of such perfect submission.

It took her a moment to remind herself that this man wasn't a willing partner, far from it, he was a victim and thinking of him in that way was deplorable. Ashamed of her own thoughts she quickly gestured for him to get up.

"37, what are you doing down there? Get up." She ordered and it was followed without a question. "Take a seat and a plate, we'll have breakfast together."

He looked up then, seemingly surprised despite the dinner they had shared last night. Still, the Drell didn't dare arguing with her so he just followed her instructions without a word and grabbed a plate and utensils from the tray floating next to the table and sat down.

"You don't have to do that again, at least not in private." She informed him as he took an apple and began cutting it in pieces. He looked up curiously.

"Do what again, Mistress?"

"Kneeling. I don't want you to kneel for me." She said. 'Liar' a little voice whispered in the back of her mind but she ignored him. "Nor do you have to order me food or serve me or anything of that sort, okay?"

He nodded.

"Are you going to punish me then, Mistress?" he asked mildy.

She almost choked on her coffee.

"No!"

To his credit, he did not flinch. She took a deep, calming breath.

"Of course not. 37… you're my guest, not my prisoner, do you understand that?"

Another nod. She pressed on.

"The only reason why I'd hurt you in any would be to defend myself."

"I understand, Mistress."

"Good. Now, eat your breakfast too. Later, when my partner arrives we'll go to my ship to visit my physician."

It turned out that 37 had nothing else to wear than the clothes on his back and Shepard made a mental note to dig through the clothes she had on the luxury yacht the Council had provided to keep her cover as the Normandy was too high profile – his body shape was so similar to a human, surely he'd fit in their clothes, at least until they found the time to go shopping. As it was, the thought of walking around Omega almost naked didn't seem to bother him all that much.

The doorbell chimed and went to let Garrus in.

The Turian was dressed in his usual blue armour, thankfully having bought a new set that didn't spot a jagged hole on the collar. Over a head taller than her, heavily armoured and armed as he was, her friend presented an imposing sight.

"Shepard." He began and then his eyes fell on her throat. It suddenly it occurred to her that she had forgotten to apply medigel on the bruises caused by the little accident the previous night. She knew that it looked worse than it actually was – she always bruised easily, implants or no implants – and Garrus' blue eyes immediately zeroed on the mottled blue spots.

"Where is he?" he growled, his entire body tensing, ready for a violent confrontation. She put her hand on his forearm and squeezed through his armor.

"Don't. It was a misunderstanding. I am fine."

"What happened?" he demanded, the flanging in his voice deepening.

"He thought me for another abuser and tried to escape before I could explain. I can't say I blame him for it."

Garrus slowly deflated under her touch. He had spent enough time on Omega and other places like it to be well-aware what slavers did to their victims.

"If he tries something like that again, I'll rip him limb from limb." He stated, tone surprisingly calm and even.

She smiled and patted his shoulder soothingly. She was knew that Garrus was almost painfully attached to her. He viewed her as something more than a friend, more than a mentor – someone he could trust with his darkest secrets and not be judged for them. It made him quite protective, though she knew he struggled not to overwhelm her, not to mention that he did respect her ability to take care of herself. They had gone through hell together not once, but twice, and Shepard knew he would readily follow her back into it again without even a shred of hesitation. It was remaining alone that scared him, without the one person in his life he could trust so implicitly. The thought of it humbled her.

"He won't do this again, Garrus." She reassured him and he slowly nodded, willing to let it go, at least for the moment.

The Drell was waiting them in the dining room, though he was no longer sitting at the table, but standing by one of the windows, looking down on the busy streets of Omega. He turned around when they came in and bowed to Garrus when they approached.

"I didn't introduce you two properly last night." Shepard began. "This is Garrus Vakarian, my friend and colleague. He's working with me on this case. Garrus, this is…" she cleared her throat. "this is 37."

Garrus nodded in greeting, though his eyes remained as cold as chips of ice as he stared down at the Drell, who bowed again. If he was curious about the strange moniker he didn't ask about it and Shepard decided to let it go for now.

After she changed in another borrowed dress they headed down to the hotel parking lot where their hovercraft was stationed. Garrus slid into the driver's seat and waited for them to get settled in then revved up the engine.

No one spoke during the trip to Omega's docking area, though the silence was much more comfortable now than the previous night.

Finally, they arrived and Garrus landed the hovercraft, then led them away and towards their ship. Shepard could feel eyes on her as they walked, some curious, other envious, most greedy, but no one made an attempt to bother them. They must've looked quite impressive – a large, heavily armed Turian obviously guarding a well-dressed human woman and a half-naked Drell that followed them, looking somber, his head bowed submissively, presenting the public with the perfect image of an obedient slave. Good. Let whatever eyes and ears the slavers had posted on the docks bring the news to their masters.

As they walked down the corridor and passed by a pair of shifty-looking Salarians Shepard saw their new ship – a large, slick yacht, gleaming silver under the sharp artificial lights, all smooth curves and elegant angles. She was a work of art, even if Shepard would've preferred to have arrived on the ship she knew best.

The Normandy was safely docked on the Citadel under captain Bailey's watchful eye. Her current ship, despite her decadent appearance packed quite a punch, not to mention that EDI's hardware had been temporarily moved, courtesy of the fact that Shepard owned the second Normandy and could do whatever she damned well pleased with her.

The inside of the ship looked as luxurious as the outside – where the Normandy's corridors were all gleaming, but utilitarian metal, here everything was covered in rare wood and expensive, hand-woven cloth, different works of art decorating the walls.

Not for the first time she wondered just where had the Council gotten a ship that displayed such opulence – even more so than a diplomatic vessel did. Perhaps it had belonged to one of the Red Sand-selling drug lords C-Sec had taken down over the years. It certainly looked like something of that sort – gaudy and displaying wealth in an almost obscene manner.

She led Garrus and Thane to the Infirmary and the adjacent Med Lab where both Chakwas and Mordin were stationed. The human doctor looked up when they entered and smiled welcomingly at her commander who waved at her and proceeded to the Med Lab. Mordin, as usual, was tinkering with the equipment on his worktable, looking like he was trying to unlock the secrets of the universe – which was probably exactly what he was doing. He did look up though when they approached.

"Ah, Shepard! I expected to see you. Officer Vacarian called last night. Said that everything was successful." His eyes fell on Thane. "That is the subject?"

The Drell was eyeing the doctor with an inscrutable expression on his face and showed no discomfort when Mordin moved around his worktable and approached him.

"Drell, approximately 35-40 standard years of age, obvious malnutrition, no visible signs of further physical abuse though." He paused. "Needs new clothes. Must be cold, Drell used to much hotter temperatures." He concluded.

She turned to 37 in surprise.

"Are you cold?"

He shifted his weight from one leg to the other before responding. 

"Yes, Mistress. A little."

"And why didn't you tell me?"

The only response was staring at his own toes, obviously uncomfortable.

"You thought that I wouldn't care." She said, struggling to keep the accusatory tone out of her voice and failing. He shrugged.

"I thought that it wasn't important." The Drell pointed out mildly.

She reached and touched his bare shoulder, suddenly realizing how cold his scaly flesh was.

"I'll go search for something suitable for you to wear while Doctor Mordin examines you to see if you have any other medical conditions resulting from your captivity that need to be addressed."

He nodded. She beckoned Garrus to follow her and left the Infirmary. As they walked towards the storage area she spoke to the Turian:

"After Mordin's done with his exam I'll stay for a while to talk to him. You bring our guest to my quarters and begin debriefing him about whatever information he might have on the slavers. I am sure that someone with his profession would've been trained to be observant. Hopefully we'll learn a lot from him."

Garrus nodded thoughtfully.

"What are you going to do with him?" he asked as they entered the storage area and Shepard began to rummage through the various crates, looking for something that would fit the Drell.

"I'll let him go, of course, once we're done with them." She answered, tugging a pair of pants that looked like they'd both be too loose on the Drell's narrow hips.

"And if he wishes to leave sooner?"

She paused. The same question had been bugging her ever since they had hatched up this plan for Shepard to present herself as a potential client. She couldn't force the man to stay with her, she wasn't that kind of person. However, she did need to maintain her cover and that meant owning slaves. Using them too, to convince the public and whatever spies the slavers had sent to observe her that she meant business. Taking down those bastards was the most important thing right now, and as much as she hated the thought of it, she needed the Drell to maintain her cover. His leaving would greatly complicate things.

"I don't know, Garrus. Let's hope it doesn't come to that."

He remained quiet for a while, standing behind her like a silent sentinel as she kept digging in the crates.

"We need to finish this mission at all costs, Shepard." He pointed out after a while. She turned to look at him and noticed with relief that despite his words distaste was written all over his Turian features.

"Even if it means forcing him to stay?"

Garrus' mandibles pressed tightly to his jaw – the Turian equivalent of thinned lips – as he replied:

"These bastards have already taken thousands of people – men, women, children – and sold them like cattle. Stopping them from continuing this is more important than the happiness…" he took a deep breath "… or the well-being of one individual."

"Is that the Turian soldier speaking or the former vigilante?"

"The former C-Sec officer." Garrus replied.

She moved to open a new crate – all these clothes were unsuitable – too large, too small, too tight, ridiculous colour – she had noticed that the Drell's figure, despite the malnutrition, was shaped like the perfect male human figure- wide shoulders, narrow hips, v-shaped back, long, slender legs – almost too perfect, and that made it difficult to clothe with what she had here.

"Shepard?"

She finally found a suitable shirt, now all she needed was pants. His feet were too small to fit in a standard human male shoe, which meant that he'd just have to go barefooted until they visited a shop. There was no way she was parading him around Omega wearing Kelly's stripper boots.

"I know." She said finally. "It feels wrong though, even just thinking about it, let alone doing it. That could've been my parents. Or even myself, had it not been for the patrol ship that rescued me."

A three-fingered hand settled on her shoulder soothingly and she turned around to look at him, suddenly feeling old and jaded. For her short 30 years she had seen more, done more, accomplished more that what some Asari did during their whole lifetimes. And yet, the thought of forcing an already abused and traumatized individual seemed like the worst of all she'd ever done.

"It may never come to that." Garrus said, obviously trying to comfort her. She gave him a wan smile.

"Let's hope so."

When they eventually returned to Mordin's office it turned out that the Salarian was still busy inside and they settled in the Med Bay to wait for him, the Drell's new clothes neatly folded in Shepard's hands. After almost an hour the doors slid open and the Salarian accompanied his patient out, handing him a small jar of pills.

"Take one every morning and every evening. That should help."

"Thank you." 37 said and bowed his head respectfully.

"There you are." Shepard smiled as he turned to her and she handed him the clothes. "You can change here and then you'll go with Garrus to tell him all that you know about your captors. I'll speak with Doctor Mordin, then I'll join you."

"Yes, Mistress."

She nodded, then followed Mordin in his office.

"Well? How is he?"

"Physically, remarkably well, considering his ordeal. Mentally, will need more time to observe to make a valid conclusion. When captured the patient was on the verge of developing Kepral syndrome… Removing him from Kahje's humid climate probably saved his life."

"Kepral syndrome?"

"Drell lung degenerative condition. Not communicable. Untreatable. Caused by high humidity – Drell are species that evolved in arid climate."

Fate had a funny way of fucking with people, Shepard thought.

"So he had no signs of physical abuse?"

"He did." Mordin noted as he moved behind his table again. "Patient has marks of both brutal physical and sexual assault."

She gaped at him for a moment.

"But you just said…"

"Scarring is old. Quite old. Probably incurred during the first days of his captivity. Before Batarians figured out physical torture doesn't work on Drell."

"It doesn't?"

"Drell minds different than human." He began. "Drell capable of recalling any event of their life with perfect clarity. Memory is as real as present experiences. So real that some lose themselves to it. Drell are taught ways to avoid that from early childhood."

She nodded, unsure where he was going with this.

"However, under physical extreme duress, they are capable of doing the opposite. Deliberately withdraw from reality into their memories. Withdrawal is a coping mechanism. Patient probably did that when the Batarians tortured him." The expression on his face was enough to tell her what he thought of said Batarians. Mordin, she had discovered early on, had about as much love as her for people who tortured captives.

"So they came up with the neural implant." She stated, lips curling with disgust.

He nodded.

"But wouldn't he able to learn to block that too, even if it directly stimulates his brain?"

"Yes, he would." Mordin confirmed. "Patient's neural implant not connected to brain pain receptors. Scans showed as much."

"So it's not causing him any physical pain when it's used?" she asked, growing more and more confused. Mordin shook his head. "Well, then what does it do?"

"Uncertain. Could not draw any valid conclusion from scans performed with this equipment and patient refused to cooperate when asked about it. Further analysis needed."

"I see. Can you remove it?"

"Not in this facility. Procedure dangerous and invasive."

She took out the remote from her pocket and handed it to him. She had not wanted to give it to him initially, at least not when the Drell could see her. It almost felt like it was an invisible leash connected to a collar that she was handing over.

"Would this help?"

He turned it around in his hands before sighing sadly.

"Not very likely. But will see what I can do. See if you can convince him to tell you about it."

She nodded.

"I will."


End file.
